Cam
“I’m surprised you managed to peel yourself away from your sex cabin,” King says, saucering a puck in my direction.
I catch it on the blade of my stick, spin, and fire a shot on net.
It flies into the top corner with ease.
Kind of like these last few days have been.
Wednesday afternoon Dan sprung us from river jail—which in actuality, was him cock-blocking me. Yes, he was helping as planned. Yes, I was grumpy about it. No more excuses to stay entwined in each other, to stay naked, to eat and fuck and play video games.
Not that Athena didn’t work.
She spent time on the phone, on her laptop, working on her case. Just like I spent time working out—and not just by fucking her.
But now we’re back in the Bay, back to reality, back to—
Another puck flies toward me, but I’m not quick enough. It smacks me hard in the stomach.
“Ow,” I groan.
King smirks. “That’ll learn ya.”
“Asshole,” I mutter.
He flicks another puck at me, but this time I’m paying attention. “Maybe,” he says. “But at least I can catch a pass.”
“Remind me to never tell you anything about my personal life again,” I mutter.
“Hey,” King says, “if I was trapped with a woman in a love shack, fucking her brains out, I’d be shouting it from the rooftops too.”
Shouting, apparently, being sending a text to our group chain saying I was busy with a woman and couldn’t meet up for kitten time.
I’m still not certain how they got that even much out of me—
But the truth is that I’d caved like a cheap suitcase.
Must be that older brother sniffing out secrets super power.
Or maybe the fact that I’m fucking happy and my tongue was loosened.
I send the puck back to him—hard, much harder than we’ve been passing. Mostly because today is just about getting some ice time and fucking around, staying loose, finding the joy in the sport again. Not trying to kill each other, even though I’m not opposed to giving my annoying teammates a couple of bruises. Unfortunately, for me King just catches it without issue, sending it sailing over to Rome, who takes a shot.
Ping!
There’s nothing like that sound, especially when it’s resulting in a bar down—the puck bouncing into the net instead of hitting a post and bouncing out.
Hudson, who’s standing next to me, whistles. “Goddamn, the man’s got a shot.”
I look over at my teammate—or maybe I should say that I look up.
He’s a big fucker, one of the biggest on the roster and built like a tank. But contrary to most of the absolute units in the league, Huddy is fast as hell, liquid lightning. And it doesn’t take half a sheet of ice for him to get going.
He’s got great hands too.
And isn’t a douchebag.
So, we’ve looped him into our whole not asshole group.
“You say that as though you didn’t break someone’s hand with your clapper.”
Huddy’s a modest guy, and he doesn’t have to be.
But, as is his way, he just shrugs and turns the focus to someone else, in this case, complimenting Rome. “Cap’s accuracy is unmatched.” One big shoulder lifts and drops. “If I had a modicum of that…”
See?
Modest.
And smart. Fucker takes college classes for fun.
“Modicum’s a big word, Huddy.”
He just shakes his head, picks up a puck, and gets down to business. But I see that he’s smiling.
Grinning, I scoop up my own puck, get some time in on the ice. It’s a rare commodity in the summer time, and it feels like home just being on the rink. Cold air, crunching skates, the slaps and pings and crashes that are hockey personified.
By the time our hour’s up, I’m sweating and my wrists and forearms ache. There’s nothing that can quite replicate being on the ice…except for being on the ice, so it’s good to get out here.
Good to get time just doing what I love, what I know, what feels right.
Athena.
Well, that too, I think with a smirk—or that’s what I’m going to do next.
“Ow!” I grunt, finding my face pressed to the wall outside the locker room.
“Sex cave thoughts,” King jokes, easing up on my back so my nose isn’t actually plastered against the concrete. “Gotta get your head in the game, kid.”
That sends a pulse of guilt through me.
Something he sees.
Fuck.
“Cam,” he begins, immediately releasing me.
“What are you and Rory up to today?” I blurt.
“Cam,” he says again, his tone filled with warning.
Danger. Danger.
But, thank fuck, Rome comes down the hall then, discussing something in depth with Huddy.
“I need to talk to Rome,” I say quickly.
King opens his mouth, but I’m already moving, using one of my patented youngest sibling moves to dodge the arm he shoots out.
“Hey.” I’m interrupting, but I don’t have a fucking problem with being a rude fucker—not when it means avoiding the conversation with King. God knows, it’s bad enough that Athena knows everything—
Bad.
Okay, that’s not fair.
It’s…fine. She knows about the injury and Coach, but that doesn’t mean I want everyone else to know about the bullshit that was fucking with my head.
I’m fine. It’ll all be fine.
And I’ve even talked with someone about it.
See? Growth. Ready to move forward.
But I don’t get a chance to have my fake conversation with Rome to avoid King’s conversation.
Because Coach comes out of his office.
He gets one glimpse of me, scowls, and bellows, “Jackson. Your ass in my office. Now.”
Things were going good.
But now I’m sitting in a familiar chair, listening to a familiar rant, and trying to remember why I’m here, putting in extra time in the off-season, only to get shit on for my “lack of seriousness” on the ice.
Never mind that the guys and I paid for the ice time. Never mind that we were all free and loose and this was far from an organized team practice. Never mind that I wasn’t the only one pausing to chat and fuck around and laugh and just generally enjoy the thing that’s been our lives from pretty much the moment we started walking.
“…fucking hell, Jackson. You need to—”
There’s a knock at the door, and I look up just in time to see the door swing open, to see Chrissy pop her head in. There’s something in her eyes that I don’t love—that I fucking hate, that tells me she heard enough of Coach’s rant.
Damn.
“Are we still having that meeting, Barry?” she asks, tone completely neutral but somehow still displaying complete disapproval.
Chrissy doesn’t strictly work for the team—her full-time gig is her animal charity—but she does contract work on the player development side, mostly because she’s really gifted at it, but also because Jean-Michel likes to play overprotective dad and keep her close so he can protect her.
Or overprotect as she likes to complain.
But when our eyes connect, I know that the overprotective gene didn’t skip a generation.
“I can come back,” she says when Coach doesn’t immediately reply, starting to turn, her tablet and papers in hand.
That snaps him out of his stupor, and he narrows his eyes for a second before he glares at me again. “Dismissed.”
Not liking that look and what it might mean for Chrissy, I flick my eyes toward her as I stand up, wanting to make sure she knows I won’t leave her unless she’s comfortable.
Her half-smile and the amusement creeping into her expression tells me enough.
Christina Dubois may have a soft heart for stray animals and people, but she’s her father’s daughter.
And if she needs to kick some ass, that trait didn’t skip a generation either.
I nod, slip from the room, and make short work of getting changed and heading out to my parking lot.
But my run-ins with the Dubois doublet doesn’t end with Chrissy intervening in Coach’s office.
The moment I step out into the California sunshine, I spot someone by my car.
No. Someones.
The owner of the team, Jean-Michel Dubois, is talking to…
Athena.